


The scent of summer on your skin

by partofforever (edvic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1830s, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Blow Jobs, Facials, First Kiss, Immortality, M/M, Middle Ages, Renaissance Era, Strangers to Lovers, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 18:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14025942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/pseuds/partofforever
Summary: By chance, Harry becomes a time traveler. By chance, he meets an immortal knight.





	The scent of summer on your skin

**Author's Note:**

> It's extra self-indulgent and - as always - extra OOC.

It all started with an accident.

Harry never expected his grandfather’s gift to work - in the end, the old man was a little wrong in his head in the last few years before his death, talking about all the lands he’d never seen and people he’d never met, growing feverish every time his family tried to keep him in his favourite armchair. On his deathbed Harry had been the only one to listen to his quiet mumbling, more out of tenderness than curiosity, thankful for all the years they’d spent together at the countryside farm, far away from the city and the noise. There, Harry could dream freely, following the wild tales with eager mind, watching stars fall and moons pass.

He had been a lonely child and he turned into a lonely twenty-something, slowly losing hope that being a high school loser could somehow turn him into a popular history student. History was only cool in movies and his grandfather's tales, a mystery to be unfold, full of secret passages and underwater kingdoms, of betrayal, envy and love - his professors took little interest in such things, focused on going home early, dismissing his question with a shrug of their shoulders.

At least the farm was now his, just like everything else - the books he had loved so much when he was younger, the photographs where he was smiling in his cowboy hat, the old trunk full of odd things his grandfather collected over the years.

Rubbish, he thought, trying to make some sense of all the things cluttering the attic. He knew he should get rid of it-

Something golden and round caught his eyes. Like a magpie, lured by the shiny surface, he crept closer, lowering his head to avoid hitting the low ceiling and fighting the sudden need to sneeze, and soon he recognized his grandfather’s treasure.

A time-turner, Harry remembered, and his lips curved into a soft smile. His grandfather had been especially fond of the little golden clock, always keeping it close, at least as long as he had been able to carry it around, recounting all of his supposed adventures in exotic lands and forgotten cities. All the battles he’d fought in, the kings he’d met - even adult as he was now, Harry didn’t want to let go of the sweet memory, the warmth creeping into heart as his grandfather’s smile appeared in his mind.

He only wanted to see how far was it possible to travel back in time. It won’t hurt to try, he thought, feeling the weight of the clock in his hands, aiming for medieval England. Merlin was always his grandfather’s favourite imaginary friends. It would be truly something to meet him, a great mind of the past that wasn't even real.

Turning the clock around and closing his eyes, Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted it to work.

Somewhere far away, he heard birds singing, but the melody was like nothing he’d ever heard and soon it got louder, more real, even unearthly as it was.

The wooden floor under his knees turned into something different, softer, and he felt the scent of flowers, sweet and intoxicating, and something flew by his ear buzzing, as if he was…

… in a garden.

Opening his eyes at last, Harry could only gasp in awe. His heart was pounding, unable to understand what happened, and his hands met the ground, pressing into the grass, so green it looked unreal. The sky above his head was blue, a painter’s dream, and clouds, white as snow and fluffy like cotton candy, were hanging on it here and there, barely moving, paying no attention to the gentle wind.

If he didn't already know there was some magic in the world, he'd think he's found himself at some kind of a heavenly threshold - so peaceful and non-earthly it seemed, bathed in soft morning sun. Though it looked enchanting, he wanted to go back at once, too scared to stay, too frightened to believe…

"Are you her spy?"

A voice, sharp and full of spite, sounded somewhere behind his back, where the wild roses were growing high, but before Harry could do anything more than jump up, someone stopped him, placing the sharp tip of a knife on his throat.

A stranger whose face he couldn’t see was breathing hard against the back of his neck, and Harry felt a shiver ran down his spine - not only from fear, but because the man was now flush against him, warm and strong and-

"Are you Morgain’s?"

For a brief moment, Harry praised himself for his own skill - not many would understand the long-forgotten language the man was using - but his joy soon turned to horror as the knife was pressed more forcefully against his skin, only shy of cutting it.

"No, sir, my name is Harry."

His words sounded strained and for the first time he regretted finding the odd golden clock that was able to turn back time.

"I'm not a spy," he added willingly, wondering if his declaration would change anything. The man didn’t seem to be one to negotiate, preferring the way of sword.

But - after a few painfully long seconds that dragged like centuries in Harry's mind - the grip on his throat loosened, and he breathed freely again, taking in a huge gulp of air and choking on it when it reached his lungs.

"You do look foreign," he barely heard the words, trying to surpass the sudden attack of cough. Like a wounded animal, he was on the ground again and when he dared to look up, the man was staring at him with a tasking gaze, taking a step back. His hand was still on the knife and there was a sword by his belt, old and heavy, something a knight could carry into battle. "What are you doing in my garden?"

"I was simply passing by, sir. There's no need to get angry."

"No one passes by here. Who told you how to find me? Was it my son?"

"I don't know your son, sir," Harry tried to remain calm, to take control of his shaking hands and gather his thoughts, but it was so hard when he finally realized his time-turner stopped working. He was turning it in his pocket, but nothing changed.

He was stuck.

The stranger laughed for some reason, throwing his head back, and his long hair looked like wild birds' feathers in the rays of sun. For a moment Harry thought he'd seen him before - in a feverish dream perhaps - and a strange feeling of longing awoke in him, but it was gone as soon as the man spoke again,

"You truly have to be a foreigner, and from a distant land. You don't know the king’s sister, yet you travelled right into her prison. Don't you know who I am?"

Harry shook his head, not trusting his own voice. His hand was sweaty in his pocket, his heart racing, helplessly fighting the broken clock.

"I'm Tom. Tom a'Lincoln, the Red Rose Knight."

The name told Harry nothing, even if it tugged a string somewhere in his heart.

Red Rose Knight, he remembered suddenly, thinking about his grandfather’s tales. One of King Arthur’s sons. But… No, it was impossible. He couldn’t travel right into a legend.

"Tom," he repeated absent-mindedly, once again turning the clock in his pocket.

It worked.

 

* * *

 

 

When he woke up in the attic, cold and terrified, it was almost tempting to believe Tom was nothing more than a dream - an understandable result of his ongoing grief, a vision sent by his grandfather or gods - but when he looked at his reflection in the mirror standing in the dusty corner and saw the mark blooming where the knife was placed against his skin, its paleness turning purple and red, Harry knew he could never fool himself for too long.

Hiding the time-turner under his pillow, he decided to think about it in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

Their second meeting was unexpected. At times Harry did wonder what happened to the mysterious prisoner, but even though he looked for his name in libraries of past, present and future, his story was always ending happily, with no mention of exile. A long, fulfilling life, a loving family, a peaceful grave - Tom’s death was one of a hero.

Some days Harry played with the idea of visiting the old garden again, even if only to take a look, but though it had tempted him to go back, the clock’s malfunction scared him enough not to try.

He wondered and dreamed, and more often than not it was Tom’s name that graced his lips upon waking up, making him ask time after time - why? Why did they meet? Was is a chance or something more? Wary of believing in fate, Harry tried to ignore the lingering emptiness that was filling his ribcage since the day he had travelled back in time.

It seemed their meeting was planned in advance, whether he wanted it or not.

Venice was his favourite in Renaissance: filled with life, art and adventures. He could be a painter, a merchant, a priest - a count from abroad if he only tried hard enough, flavouring his Italian with a dash of accent. His professors were still unimpressed with his vast knowledge - _how can you know this, Mr. Potter? where’s the proof?_ \- but Harry had learned not to care. It was hard to care about the ordinary world when ships were full of spice and fine men, bottles carried sweet wine and sun was shining above his head, making him look tan whenever he was going back to his own time.

One evening, after studying frescoes in one of the many churches, he was walking down the paved street by Canalasso to his favourite inn when a familiar voice called his name.

"Harry!"

It was only natural of him to turn back in terror, realizing someone recognized him. Harry was never using his own name in the past - it was too unusual, too easy to remember. In Venice he tended to be Paolo, in Rome - Francesco, in Milano - Umbrio. He was everyone and no one, a part of the nameless crowd, insignificant and trying not to mess up the past.

Yet someone was calling his name and soon enough he saw a man that should be long gone.

He didn't change, his hair still long, not a single new wrinkle around his eyes, the sword by his belt and a knowing smile on his face.

"I knew we'd meet again," Tom greeted him warmly, taking Harry’s breath away with the sudden embrace. He smelled like salt and water, the scent of sailors. “It’s destiny.”

Though they’d parted as strangers, it seemed they were friends now, two souls bound by fate or chance, crossing each other’s paths again, in the most unexpected of places.

"H-how?" It was the only question Harry could think of. "How are you still alive?"

"Didn't you read about me in books? Don’t you know the story of the immortal knight? The one who drank from the Grail?"

Once again, he had to shook his head.

“I’ve searched for you, but the only Tom I know died in his old age.”

"It seems I'll have to tell you the story myself."

There was something odd about Tom’s smile, something tender and sweet in the way his hand lingered on Harry's arm and he couldn't say  _ no _ .

"I’d love to listen."

 

* * *

 

 

Harry stayed in Venice far longer than he initially intended. There was so much to talk about and the stars seemed brighter than he remembered from his grandfather’s farm. Trapped in a time long gone, he felt like he had mastered it for once.

Sitting by Tom’s side he watched the sun set over the horizon hidden somewhere at the end of the warm sea, a careful keeper of the ancient secrets. His feet, bare and aching after a day spent on strolling through the city blooming with art, were ankles deep in water and soft waves tickled his skin, offering some comfort.

“So you’re immortal.”

The newly found knowledge was hard to digest. It was one thing to travel in time and quite another to live through it.

“And you’re from the future.”

Harry couldn’t help smiling hearing the hint of amusement in Tom’s voice and when the man moved closer, reaching for his waist, he didn’t protest. His head landed softly on Tom’s arm and his fingers traced the scar on his neck, silvery and old. _The one who gave it to me suffered a more severe wound_ , the man had smiled when Harry asked, curious to know more, to unwrap Tom’s story like his favourite chocolate in a box full of sweets. He could try to find Dante, to ask da Vinci about Mona Lisa’s smile, but sitting by Tom’s side brought him more comfort than any conversation, any answer. 

It was easy to be around him and in some odd sense Tom felt like home in that foreign time, in a place that was neither his nor Harry’s, a blank space ready to be filled with memories.

He could feel Tom’s heartbeat under his palm, the steady movement of his chest, and he didn’t want it to end.

Harry wasn’t sure when his lips found Tom’s - or was it the other way around? - but when they met, perhaps somewhere halfway, Harry trembled and gasped, overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all. Tom was soft against him, soft but restless, claiming Harry piece by piece, with his mouth and his hands, until they were breathless, their fingers laced by something more than mere chance.

“Will you wait for me?”

A soft whisper ghosted over Harry’s skin when they parted, lost in each other, frozen in the moment.

Breathing in the scent of sea and Tom’s sweat, Harry nodded.

 

* * *

 

His own time seemed dull compared to any other spent with Tom - his lectures were boring when he knew more about the past than any university could ever teach him, his meals had no taste after he had a chance to eat fishes freshly drawn from sea; even the farm he used to love so much felt like a prison, grounding him in the present.

Sitting on the porch, Harry watched the stars, and they seemed to be blinking at him, disbelief apparent in their flickering dance, as if they wanted to ask what was he doing down there, sulking over a glass of wine.

He should’ve stopped himself from falling, from wanting what was never meant to happen. Time was a force he could never win with, not even when he had an immortal on his side.

The alcohol tasted sour on his tongue, and Harry winced, asking stars to grant him the impossible.

 

* * *

 

 

His travels were now focused on finding Tom again.

It wasn't easy; being immortal, Tom had to be careful, probably even more than Harry. He was leaving clues, small traces of his existence - books he didn't bother returning to that one library in London, letters hidden in a desk Harry found in Moscow, a copy of Mozart's Le Nozze di Figaro with a single word scripted in elegant handwriting: _Paris_.

It was the summer of 1832 and Harry was strolling through Luxembourg Garden hoping to meet the one he was looking for.

The sun was slowly setting, casting long shadows over his path as the old trees trembled in the afternoon wind, their branches talking to each other over Harry’s head. It was peaceful, so peaceful - were they really meant to meet in a place like this? Were they bound to walk through the park like some forgotten lovers did before them?

Passing by some aspiring artist sketching the rose bushes, Harry wondered if he’d be able to find the right words to say what he had to say, even if it hurt. His hands were restless as he walked on, tracing the green leaves, trying to avoid thorns, but Tom was nowhere to be seen. Was he hidden somewhere between the flowers, lost in thoughts? Wouldn’t it be nice to surprise him, cover his eyes and make him guess who was disturbing his peace, only to hear him whisper _Harry_ when their eyes met?

The roses were in full bloom and their sweet scent - lingering in the air, intoxicating - reminded Harry about that first meeting long ago, in a world already gone. It was irresponsible to travel that far, but did he regret it? He didn’t want to.

"I've missed you."  

A soft breath tickled his skin, bringing back the memory of Venice and the time of solitude that had followed. Once more he was the one to be taken by surprise. It was only two years for him, for Tom - a little over three centuries, more than enough lifetimes to die of despair and loneliness and boredom.

Turning around Harry saw the same face he’d dreamt of every night in every time - one that was never changing, engraved in his memory and more lasting than a photograph, for it wasn’t fading.

"How do you like my roses?"

His palm, lingering on the leaves a moment ago, was brought up to Tom’s lips, and when Harry felt his breath ghosting over it, his heart sped up its pace, suddenly eager to pierce through his ribs, as if it was trying to make up for all the time they were forced apart, making his skin burn where Tom’s kisses fell.

"Your roses?" He was barely able to talk, lost in the sensation of having Tom close, so close, and yet so far, unable to move and touch him with his own hands, unable to do anything more than stay where he was, mesmerised. "How long have you been here?"

"Some time. Long enough to grow them for you."

He could feel the blush creeping onto his face at Tom’s words and he bent over the nearest rose trying to hide his feelings, so easily taking him over; he wasn’t allowed to feel this way, not about a man he barely knew after all, a man old as fairytales and forgotten even by them.

Harry knew Tom’s roses all too well - his mother loved them so much. It felt strange to be a part of his own future that hadn’t happened yet, looking at something that would bring joy to people who were nothing more than shapeless dreams.  

"They’re all bearing your name." Sometimes Harry was nearly sure Tom could read his mind, knowing what he was thinking about. "I engraved it on each petal."

"I don't wish for roses, but for you," the words slipped before he could bit his tongue, treacherous, and Harry saw his own face in Tom’s brown eyes. He looked lost. "Every time I have to go back, every time I see a trace of you..." He breathed in suddenly, feeling a soft touch on his cheek. "Don't try to distract me. You know it won't..."

... work on me, Harry wanted to say, but his words were cut off by Tom's insistent lips. Once again he let himself forget about everything he wanted to say, the terrible loneliness he felt in his time, the long hours of waiting. He knew it would only get worse now that he tasted Tom again, felt his bruised hand on his cheek. Sheltered by his arms, Harry was safe. Were they friends or... ? The kiss ended too soon to let him decide.

“Let me take you home.”

Harry knew he shouldn’t allow it - the tenderness, the closeness - but his heart decided against his reason, and he took Tom’s hand in his own, following him into the copse.

 

* * *

 

 

There were books on Tom’s windowsill and flowers in a vase by his bed, the same white roses Harry saw in the garden, their scent heavy in the evening air. A white cat, Tom’s only companion in the vast flat, spared Harry a single glance, ignoring him for the sake of his nap, paying no further attention to the unexpected intruder.

“Would you like some-”

He didn’t let Tom end, attacking him with a desperate kiss, trying to find the answer he needed so badly. Confused, he didn’t know what was he really looking for - wasn’t he planning to say goodbye? Wasn’t he ready to let go?

His arms were weak compared to Tom’s and he didn’t fight when the dominance gained by a surprise attack was taken away from him, a single breath passing between them before they were close again, young against ancient, helpless against steady. Harry wished there was more of it - more of Tom’s hands travelling down his back, so slowly he was melting into it, more of Tom’s stubble, tickling and making his smile into the kiss, more of his tongue and scent and skin, more, more, more-

Pushed against the wall, he parted his legs eagerly, gasping when he felt the obvious sign of Tom’s arousal. For a moment everything around him lost its focus, and he closed his eyes, overwhelmed by how good it felt to be in Tom’s arms, grinding against him, hearing his ragged breath, feeling his mouth, hot and insisting, on his jaw.

“We can’t-” He didn’t recognize his own voice, so breathless it sounded. Breathless and not really convincing. “Please-”

“Don’t you want me?” Tom put his hand back on his neck, making him move, exposing the pale column of his throat so it was easier to kiss. “Don’t you long for me the same way I long for you, Harry?”

He didn’t try to fight the shiver that ran down his spine and the way his arms draped around Tom, keeping him where he was, with his teeth worrying Harry’s skin, biting down only to lick the pain away, and he thought it might make him go crazy. They were moving again and he was no longer pressed to the wall, but his feet were barely touching the wooden floor, all of his body lifted, carried by Tom.

“Say it.” The words fell on the bed right after him, bouncing off the edge, where he could ignore them. “Look into my eyes and swear that you don’t want me. Swear and I’ll never touch you again, I’ll never bother you again.”

Harry knew Tom would do just that - never touch him, never again mention what happened, burying what they were in a deep grave, a bottomless well full of past days that he didn’t intend to keep close. He knew it and yet he couldn’t seize his only chance - he didn't want to. Was it better to pretend they had never happened and suffer in silence? Or to allow himself to take what was given to him, even it was going to haunt him till the end of his days?

“Don’t you understand? We’re impossible.”

He tried to reason with both his and Tom’s hearts, denying himself the comfort of Tom’s arms around him, Tom’s kisses and love, for it had to be love that made him wait for so many years, patiently watching the roses grow.

“Can’t you forget for one night? Can’t you cherish this moment and me? You of all people should know how deceptive time can be. It’s nothing more than an illusion, a trap you can chose not to fall in.”

He didn’t want to say  _ no _ , and  _ yes _ would sound too irreversibly, so he kissed instead, pulling Tom’s hair, drawing an angry groan from his throat as their hips met.

“Love me,” he demanded, looking into Tom’s dark eyes.

“Love you? I loved you since the day I met you.” There was only hunger in Tom’s kisses now, fire in his words. “Who else gave me the strength to run away, if not you? Who gave me hope?”

Somehow, his shirt was lying on the floor before he could think that no one had ever seen him like this, naked, and when the thought appeared among some other dizzy revelations -  _ there, there, more, ah- _ it was already too late.

“Let me-” He breathed heavily, trying to grasp Tom’s chin, tilting it up. “You’ve waited long enough.”

“I was waiting for you, Harry.”

More feverish kisses fell on his skin, travelling down his neck and collarbones, mapping him, hurrying down and down, where he felt hot and ready, burning with desire. The sheets under his back were already damp, soaked in sweat, and Harry was both thankful for his pants being quickly removed just as he was embarrassed by it. It was almost obscene - to be laid on the soft bed like a lamb on a rich man’s table, getting ready to be eaten, though in his case the torment was double, as he was eaten alive. His mind was racing, unable to stop, to give in and enjoy, his nerves were singing, brought to life with each kiss, each lazy stroke of Tom’s fingers on his now bare thighs. He opened them eagerly, waiting for Tom to settle, until he was sheltered by Harry’s wobbly knees.

Digging his fingers into Harry’s pale flesh, Tom pulled him closer, leaning down to ghost over his cock, his breath warm and teasing, and Harry was close to losing his mind from watching the tip of Tom’s tongue torture him like this, never touching, sending hot shivers down his spine time after time.

“You’re beautiful, did you know?” The question caught him off guard. Harry didn’t know what to say. “Perfect.”

“You could be in my place.”

“Oh, I hope to be, my sweet, reckless darling.” Another barking laugh and Harry thought he might as well come untouched, from the sheer force Tom held over him with his words. “My prince from the future.”

He knew he was leaking over his stomach, and his chest heaved every time Tom got close, only to place tender kisses on his hip bones and the soft curve of his thigh.

“Please-” he managed to say, though he’d been trying to stay silent. “Please, touch me.”

“What else am I doing?”

A fingernail grazed up his length, so slowly it was a torture, and Harry moaned, overwhelmed by the feeling - it was like nothing he’d ever felt, not even close to his lonely nights on the farm when the memory of Tom, of their one soft kiss was the only thing keeping him alive and driving him into oblivion at the very same time.

And then - finally, finally - he felt the rough swipe of Tom tongue going up and up, until it was dipping into the slit, as if testing his sanity.

Biting back a moan, Harry tried to stop the shaking that has overtaken his legs, thrusting up to chase Tom’s mouth, so close to coming it was almost embarrassing.

The wet heat of Tom’s mouth sucked him in, and his breath hitched, lost in the evening breeze coming through the open window. For a moment he thought how odd it was - to lie down for Tom in a city, a house that were already gone, changed by the cruel passing of time - but his mind was too dizzy to focus on the meanders of time travels when it felt so heavenly to be taken and renewed by Tom’s touch, by his arm keeping him in place, tongue working him, up and down, until the knots in his stomach started getting heavier, pushing him on and on-

He heard  a strangled gasp and his own moan was lost in the white plush pillow; he had to hide himself from Tom’s burning eyes, from the fire still lingering in his own veins, the lazy bliss that was taking his body.

Limp and relaxed, Harry had to remind himself breathing was a necessity.

It took him a long, silent moment to realize Tom moved, dragging his lifeless limbs together until Harry was the one to be trapped, faced by the man who was bound to bring him damnation.

“I can-” He said, seeing how swiftly Tom was opening his dark slacks, but before he could finish, there was a finger on his mouth, nudging him to part his lips.

“Close your eyes.”

Unsure what to expect, Harry did as he was asked, and soon the soft darkness under his eyelids was his only comfort. He could hear Tom’s uneven breathing, feel his legs bracing his waist, smell him, like an odd perfume in which rose garden got mixed with arousal and sweat, composed in a fragrance ready to be bottled.

He thought he’d taste Tom on his tongue, and he did, bitterness falling down his throat as he swallowed, but then it was everywhere else too - his cheeks, his nose, his closed eyes, running slowly down his chin and burning his skin. When it ended - unexpectedly, just like it started - Harry wasn’t sure what to do.

“Stay,” Tom sounded a bit exhausted. “Let me look at you.”

For a long moment nothing happened and time seemed frozen; even breathing felt like a blasphemy in the odd peace that overtook them. Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness Harry thought he shouldn’t feel so fulfilled, accomplished even, but before he could dwell on it for too long, Tom moved and the bed dipped on the side. Something clinked nearby and then he heard the splash of water against porcelain, soft steps and a single meow before Tom was by his side again, wiping his face clean.

“Is this how people did it in your time?”

“I’ve learned it in Sevilla some time ago,” once more, Tom kissed him, lazily this time, as their first heat got appeased, “and I’ve dreamt about trying it with you since that day. You’re the most striking creature I’ve ever come across, Harry.”

“You talk too much,” he murmured in response, but his cheeks burned under Tom’s gaze. “Hold me close.”

He was unexpectedly tired.

“I will.” Harry wasn’t sure how his hands found their way to Tom’s heart, but it felt right to be so close to him. “Good night, sweet thing.”

 

* * *

 

Everything seemed awfully more real in the morning light.

Tom’s arms were wrapped around his waist, and laying bare side by side they were tangled like wild vines, hand to back, fingers to arm, his lips on Tom’s collarbone, nuzzling even closer, his nose pressing into Tom’s neck.

“ _ But earthlier happy is the rose distilled _ ,” he heard the soft whisper before it got lost in his hair, followed by a kiss, a promise, “ _ Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn- _ ”

“- _ Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.” _

Looking up, he searched for Tom’s mouth, too hungry to let go of his chance to taste him again, even if for the last time.

Drowning in the impossible, Harry ignored the red signs placed carefully in every corner of his mind - there was no tomorrow, no yesterday, only the moment he was living, short yet perfect, filled with skin moving against skin, his nails digging into Tom’s back, Tom’s mouth filling him with warm, nonchalant  happiness.

“We could stay here,” Tom’s voice was nothing more than a purr over his parted lips, “Or we could go somewhere else, to the South, if you’d want to-”

“You know I can’t stay.” Harry didn’t want to sound so harsh. “My time here is limited. My  _ life _ is limited.”

“Maybe the time you worry about so much isn’t a continuous line? Maybe there’s no beginning and end, but a puddle in the rain, altered by countless falling drops? There’s a time where we’ve already met, a time without goodbyes.”

“Isn’t it enough to have hope that time will come for us?”

Tom smiled at him, but it was the sad kind of smile that told Harry that he was losing hope.

"It's not far away, is it?"

 

* * *

 

 

The museum was overcrowded and Harry wasn’t sure why did he agree to come. Hermione and Ron were insistent to the point of making him promise to be there only to make them shut up for a minute, so annoying they were.

Roses though centuries. The exhibition gathered quite an interest in the local media and Harry spotted a few of his professors discussing some modern painting in the back of the room.

Trying to reach for the door to get some fresh air - and maybe a glass of champagne on his way out - he almost went by a painting in a heavy old frame, before the scene reminded him of something.

One evening in the past, the darkening sky, the scent of roses lingering in the air, his own black coat and someone’s lips upon his-

The silvery plate informed him it was restored a few months ago, being missing for nearly two centuries.

It felt as if his sigh echoed in the room, so sad he was. His waiting wasn't over, even if hope had left him years ago. Using his vast knowledge he was able to make a name for himself, to settle down and live an uneventful life, not allowing himself to grieve; it wasn’t time yet to give up.

"I see you like-"

Harry raised his head so swiftly something cracked in his neck. That voice... A rush of adrenaline he hadn't felt in years made his heart beat faster, more urgently.

A pair of wide open eyes, slightly parted mouth, a look of disbelief-

"I-I'm glad to see you," Harry stuttered over his own words; his hand - a little bit shaky - reached for the black shirt. It was real. "How was your travel?"

"Way too long." There was a hint of smile on Tom’s lips. "And from far away."


End file.
